Afterthoughts of a Phantom
by MegGiry
Summary: The Opera House in flames, Erik alone, Christine gone, and yet he hears a young voice coming from the burning building...who is it? And what will happen when these two are together? Will they find Christine or will a new love bloom...R&R!
1. Default Chapter

Erik watched, stone-faced, as the Paris Opera House went up in smoke. The flames of his fire licked away at the years when the Opera House had been the top spot for all the aristocrats of France and beyond. The fire made the beautiful white columns crumble into ashes, crushed under the feet of those who were fleeing the scene. It toppled the winged golden seraphs off their perches on the top of the world, or so it had seemed to all that beheld them. All of the delicate stone angels on the balcony fell as the Opera House collapsed, crushed to smithereens in the remains of the great building.

All this Erik took in silently, watching as the ladies and gentlemen of the upper class ran for their lives from the fire, their gowns and suits shredded and charred, still clutching their opera glasses. He wouldn't admit to himself that the satisfaction of burning down the opera house didn't even compare to the feeling in his heart. His chest was squeezing so tight he could barely breathe as the tears poured down his face, all of his face, even the mass of twisted and gnarled flesh that was his deformation. He thought that the falling angels from the balcony probably felt about the same feeling he held in his heart; the crushed feeling that it would never, ever be put back together again. All the king's horses and all the king's men could never bring back Christine again.

At the very thought of her, Erik collapsed against the wall of the alley he hid in, burying his face in his cloak. Memories of her seared through his mind, white-hot as a fire poker. Christine after the gala…Christine with Raoul…Christine at the masquerade…and Christine in his arms, running her hands along his face, as he sang about the music of the night…

It was nighttime then, but he heard no music. He heard nothing but the fire roaring and the screams of the people still in the Opera House, doomed to become a part of the sea of ebony ashes that would be all that remained, come the first light of the morning. Then suddenly—

"_Help! Aide! Le feu..._"

Erik started, then rushed to his feet. The voice was young…the voice was female…the voice was also choked!

He tore off his cape with a horrific ripping sound, and didn't pause to watch as it fluttered to the ground, twisting and turning in the breeze and the smoke from the flames not twenty feet away.

He was running, heart pounding, the soles of his shoes slapping the ground with force, in the same rhythm as his heart. It wasn't Christine, couldn't be Christine. He had watched as she and Raoul had raced for the train station, hand in hand, heart in heart. Yet as he reached the sidewalk in front of the burning Opera House, his heart and mind were still set on finding her inside.

He pushed at the door, which collapsed as its hinges broke off. The steady stream of people escaping had slowed and then stopped; everyone who had a chance was out of the building and back at home, shaken but safe. And yet the voice continued.

"_Aide! ... n'importe qui... je suis emprisonné svp!_" the voice called before it had to collapse into coughs. Erik's heart raced at the meek sound. It was Christine…but it couldn't be! His mind repeated the words in his lovely Christine's voice…Help…anyone…I'm trapped! He couldn't bear the thought of losing her again.

Black smoke filled the air, carrying along ashes and sparks. It burned his eyes and his lungs as he pushed his way through what remained of the entrance to the opera house. He coughed and wheezed, waving away the smoke with his black-gloved hands. The fire still raged, crumbling the walls and the great staircase. Erik ran at the same pace his heart was pumping, racing, searching for the owner of the small voice, his Christine. The girl was still coughing, and Erik used this as a guide to her. The coughs was coming from up the great marble staircase, which was already half ashes, and falling as the seconds went on.

In one fluid movement, Erik had the railing of the staircase and was forcing his body up it, closer and closer to the searing heat of the raging fire. The fire licked at his skin as he raced around it and up, through the turns at the top and into the left wing…

"_Aide…_" the voice called one last time. His sense of direction was correct. But the voice was weak and thin, barely more than a whisper. Erik's ears were sharp, and it was a good thing, because if they weren't he probably wouldn't have heard it. Christine was dying, burning in his own fire…

He turned and rushed through the blazing hall, throwing open every door he found. Finally he saw it, illuminated by the fire beside it, the small crumpled figure his eyes had been searching for. The girl was on the floor, and Erik couldn't tell if he had a chance to save her.

"Please don't let it be too late," he called to the burning Opera House, his voice quaking and quivering. "She can't die…"

He knelt beside the figure and lifted it into his arms, turning and down the stairs, out the door and into the alley, through the smoke and the fire, out into the calm, clear, cold night.


	2. Chapter II: Mingling Tears

Erik hurried through the streets of Paris, his head down, staring at the body that lay in his arms. For once he cursed the darkness, for it made the figure in his arms only a figure. He couldn't see that it was Christine, he couldn't see that it was alive, and he couldn't see that she had come back for him.

Finally he tore his eyes away from the unmoving shape and realized he had no idea where he was or where he was going. His feet didn't stop their pounding and his chest didn't stop its breathless panting.

Suddenly he stopped cold, remembering. The scene was not long ago, not long at all, down under the cellars. His mind replayed it over and over. The scene was between Nadir and himself.

"Erik," Nadir had said as he had entered the catacombs. "Erik, where are you? I've something to tell you."

Erik had waited silently until Nadir had crossed the lake in his black gondola, dragging the pole along the stone floor.

"Yes?" he had replied as his friend hopped down into his lair.

"I've gotten you a house," Nadir had said importantly.

"_What!_"

"Not for you to live in, Erik," his friend had laughed, "just in case. If you are discovered, you are free to hide out there. The house belonged to my late uncle, and it just came into my possession at his death two months ago. As of this moment, it is yours."

Erik had thanked Nadir politely, but he hadn't seen the need for the house. Now, he praised Nadir as if the man were a god.

Returning to the present time, he tried to recall the address. The only memory he had of the house's location was that it was across from the Musee D'Orsay.

Hurriedly Erik found the Musee. He ran through the streets like a blind bat, turning this way and that, craning his head around to search for the names of the streets. Finally, he found the house. It was large and dark in the middle of the night, but when he tried the doorknob he found it unlocked. He stumbled into the black darkness of the front room.

He shifted the girl in his arms, pushing her gently over his shoulder. His free hand groped around in the dark, finally finding the wall. Along the wall it found a little table. And on the table, he found a candle and a match.

His heart began to pound even harder in his chest. His forehead broke out in a cold sweat. He clutched the girl tighter as he struck the match, then touched the flame gently to the white wax candle.

It illuminated the room only a bit, but Erik could tell that the room was a parlor. There was a great green couch and a wooden table, the same kind of wood as the desk where he had found the candle. He tiptoed silently to the couch and, oh so gently, eased the girl onto it.

His eyes filled with tears when he saw her. He bit his lip to keep the sob from escaping. It was not his Christine, and it never would be.

He whipped off his black gloves, dropping them carelessly to the floor. Shakily he grasped the girl's hand, placing his fingers firmly over the inside of her wrist. He waited for a moment, then felt, though very faintly, a beat of the girl's heart.

He found himself shaking at the thought that the girl might not live. This girl meant nothing to him. Why was the thought of her death driving his mind to the deep end? His mind softly replayed another voice, who had last sang with him just hours ago…

"He kills without a thought, he murders all that's good, I know I can't refuse; and yet I wish I could…but if I'm to agree, what horrors wait for me in this, the Phantom's Opera…"

_Oh, Christine! _He felt a tear fall gently onto his bare hand. Ignoring the tears, still grasping the candle, he leaned in closer to examine the girl.

Her face was black with ash, as well as her hair and clothes. She hadn't stirred since he had first found her. Erik realized that he was still crying as a tear fell off his cheek and onto hers. It left a small streak of the clean skin that was underneath.

Erik watched her silently, tear after tear leaving streaks in her ash-colored skin. He wondered what would be her fate, and what of his own?

Suddenly her eyelids fluttered and finally opened. Her eyes were sea green, as mysterious and misty as his own. He watched as they fixed on his face. "Oh…" she murmured, her voice soft and light. She slowly raised an ashen hand and placed it lightly on his face.

With a gasp Erik remembered that he wasn't wearing his mask. His hand flew to hers, in instinct to pry it off. But he couldn't. He just held it there, pressed to his twisted, malformed face, crying as the memories weighed him down. He felt the fingers underneath his own move slightly, stroking his cheek. Vaguely he realized that the pouring tears weren't only his own.


End file.
